Forged in Fire

by Juliette Cross

  “Such a pretty one.” A guttural murmur. “Such a shame to have to kill you.”

  Kill me? What! I squirmed, trying to pull free. Useless. A sinister hissing laugh in my ear. Lightheaded. Dark spots at the corner of my vision. I couldn’t see anything anymore. I drifted. I thought how sad my father would be that I died in such a violent way as I slipped further into oblivion. I thought of my mother.

  Suddenly, I gulped air back into my lungs. I was free of him, sliding down the wall, feeling my way along the cold brick behind me. A dark shape loomed, grappling with my attacker. Finally catching my breath, chest still heaving, I focused to see a shadowed figure lifting my would-be killer by the throat off the ground, holding him midair. His words confused me even more.

  “Stop human-hopping, and come out to play.”

  I knew that deep voice from the dance floor: R-and-B. Sandy-hair held on to my hero’s arms. He laughed that wicked laugh again.

  “Make me,” he hissed.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  R-and-B placed his free hand on the guy’s forehead, still holding him aloft. He whispered something I couldn’t hear. Sandy-hair screamed in agony. His body blurred. A second head twisted, separated from the first. How was that even possible? The second one was malformed and hideous with deep-set eyes, no nose at all and gnashing fangs. R-and-B pulled the monstrous head, slowly ripping a writhing, ghastly creature from inside Sandy-hair, letting the human host slump to the pavement. The monster screeched and hissed as my dark rescuer chanted inaudible words. Tiny hairs on my arms rose with a rippling chill. An aura of flickering golden light swept wide above his head and shoulders, beaming off his back.

  I rubbed my eyes, sure I’d been slipped some mind-altering drugs in the club. R-and-B whispered more vehemently, words I couldn’t quite hear in another language, though they sounded familiar. The creature screamed, twisted, unable to free itself. The size of a small child with bony, spindly limbs and gnashing teeth, the thing beat and scratched and clawed the air. I heard the final words of the creature’s captor, his aura flickering like flame.

  “Go back to hell.”

  In a bright flash of reddish-gold light, the beast disintegrated into smoke and powdery black ash. The smell of sulfur wafted into the air, leaving a metallic taste on my tongue. R-and-B dusted his hands off on his jeans, totally calm and collected. He sighed, walked over to Sandy-hair and checked his pulse. A sharp nod, then he walked toward me where I still sat against the wall, wondering what in the world just happened. Squatting in front of me, he lifted my chin, examining my throat.

  “How do you feel?”

  I blinked, trying to ignore the heated sensation of his touch on my skin and wondering if I’d truly lost my mind.

  “Well, I was nearly choked to death, and I just saw you pull a monster out of another man, then use some voodoo-mojo or something to crush it into dust.” I stopped to cough, rubbing my throat, my voice raspy. “I’m feeling fine. How are you?”

  I knew I should be a little less snarky to the guy who just saved my life, but what an insane question. His extremely distracting lips lifted into a smile.

  “Better, then.” He grinned. “Good.”

  He had some sort of accent, but I couldn’t place it. I took advantage of our proximity to examine him closer. Above his top button, below his collarbone, I could see the black etchings of a tattoo. I recognized the Celtic interlacing from my mother’s artwork. The tattoo must be very big, and I wanted so much to see the fine details. He reached out his hand and pulled my necklace out from underneath my shirt. The action surprised me as he moved farther into my personal space.

  “Can I help you?”

  He observed the medal dangling on the chain. “St. George. The dragon slayer.” One dark eyebrow lifted in a question.

  “My mother gave it to me.”

  “She is a smart woman.”

  “Was.”

  Those midnight eyes gazed directly into mine, searching. “I’m sorry.”

  Sorrow whirled in those depths. I felt overheated again so near him. My heart hammered away. He hovered so close, too close, just staring at me like…like what? He seemed to be trying to solve a puzzle. Finally, I found my voice.

  “Thank you.” I swallowed, my throat tight. Glancing at Sandy-hair still unconscious, I nodded toward him. “What was that thing? The thing inside him?”

  “A lower demon. A rogue, apparently. Why would he want to kill you?”

  “A what? Are you kidding me?”

  He shook his head once. “Not a joke, I’m afraid. I don’t understand why he wanted to kill you.”

  His voice was so calm, so normal. A lower demon nearly killed me, and he was playing paranormal detective. What was a lower demon? And what did that make my rescuer? Steven stirred nearby. I’d forgotten all about him.

  “Your boyfriend is unharmed. However, he’ll have a headache.”

  “He is not my boyfriend,” I enunciated very, very clearly.

  Another ghost of a smile crossed his face. My insides melted into a pile of goo.

  “Come. Your friends will worry.”

  He offered his hand and lifted me up. His hand enveloped mine, warm and rough from calluses. I needed to let go, feeling overwhelmed by the sensation of his touch. I was never overwhelmed. I was Genevieve Drake, the epitome of calm and collected. Steven moved again. Damn him.

  Tall, dark and smolderingly sexy lifted my hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss along my knuckles. His lips lingered, spreading warmth from my hand to my arm and throughout the rest of my body. What an old-fashioned gesture. I shivered. Not from the cold. His eyes never left mine.

  “Happy birthday.” He let my hand slip from his.

  What? How did he know? Unable to hold his gaze any longer, I glanced down, chanting a brief mantra in my head. Get—it—together. I took a deep shaky breath, finally summoning the courage to ask for his number. When I looked up, he was gone.

  Chapter Two

  I checked the rearview mirror. Sandy-hair had gripped me low on the throat. Four little bruises marked the left side of my neck above my collarbone. A fat bluish thumbprint was higher on the other side. Thank God for Mindy’s supersonic concealer, making them nearly invisible.

  “Good enough,” I said to my messy reflection.

  After a birthday celebration that had left me battered, bruised and extremely confused, I’d fallen into bed last night without setting the alarm. Mindy had been so wrapped up in her darling David and his heroic ability to carry her through the club, to the car and up one tiny flight of stairs to our apartment that she lavished kisses on him all the way home before collapsing into an appletini coma.

  Steven had been more difficult to deal with. He insisted that he’d been hit on the head in the alley until I convinced him otherwise. No way was I admitting what really happened. When he mentioned that he’d taken some sinus medicine earlier that night, I persuaded him to believe he’d just had a bad reaction mixing medicine with alcohol. He wasn’t very bright, so that was easy enough.

  I grabbed my backpack and red hoodie from the backseat, stuffed my iPhone in my shorts pocket and took off. I practically sprinted across campus to Professor Bennett’s classroom, slipping into my hoodie as I went.

  Ugh. Professor Bennett. Well shaven. Well groomed. Graying at the temples. Designer black-rimmed glasses and polished loafers. Wears a different blazer with dark jeans every single day. His professor-ish trappings and illusion of perfection apparently gave him the right to lord over the rest of us like we were slovenly, uneducated peasants. Perhaps it was his attitude that made me dress more unkempt than usual for his class. The rebel in me couldn’t help it.

  I was tying my hair up into a messy bun as I entered the classroom. He’d already launched into one of his perfectly articulated lectures.

  “Greetings, Ms. Drake. So good of you to grace us with your presence.”

  I plopped down in the front row.

  “You’re very w
elcome, Professor Bennett. I do aim to please.”

  Straight face. No smile. From either of us.

  “Since you seem ready to go this morning, how about you take the first stab at explaining last night’s reading from Milton?”

  Oh crap. Homework. I’d glanced over it yesterday over lunch but hadn’t taken any notes or anything. I opened my Norton Anthology.

  “Page?”

  “Page 908,” came his sharp response, “where Lucifer first speaks.”

  I reread the excerpt from Paradise Lost.

  Here at least we shall be free;

  the Almighty hath not built here for his envy,

  will not drive us hence:

  here we may reign secure,

  and in my choice to reign is worth ambition, though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.

  There was a bit of rambling from the devil before and after, but this was the crux of the speech.

  “Well, it seems that the Fallen Angel is pouting about being thrown out of heaven, but he’s also happy to have a place of his own where God can’t tell him what to do. Sort of like kids going away to college.”

  A few snickers behind me. Professor Bennett’s mouth tightened into a line.

  “True, Ms. Drake. But what do you think of the quote where Milton expounds on the topic when he says, ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.’ How are these ideas related to Lucifer’s fall?”

  Damn, he was really punishing me for being late. I pondered a second or two.

  “I suppose the idea that hell has become Lucifer’s kingdom or domain where he can reign however he sees fit is similar to our minds. We can choose to use our knowledge or intellect to create beautiful things like art or terrible things like war.”

  “Not exactly—”

  “Or,” I cut him off before he shot me down, “it could mean that we use our minds to make beautiful things ugly or ugly things beautiful with the way we view the world, treat others, or just live our own lives.”

  How’s that for only having taken Philosophy 101? Professor Bennett was getting his bearings to make some smart reply, but I had a question for him this time.

  “What I want to know is what’s so great about reigning and being in charge? Lucifer goes on and on about how power in hell is better than being a servant in heaven. But who wants all those responsibilities? I don’t get it. I’d rather do my own thing and not worry about everybody else.”

  “Not everyone is like you, Genevieve,” said Carol next to me, the stuck-up blonde who was the daughter of a senator or congressman or something.

  Poor them.

  “True, Ms. Drake,” said Professor Bennett. “Power is a responsibility.”

  “Yeah,” agreed my study partner Malcolm, “just like Uncle Ben said, ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’”

  “Who’s Uncle Ben?” asked Carol.

  Malcolm rolled his eyes.

  “From Spider-Man? Come on. Seriously?”

  “So,” I continued, “if the devil has all this power in hell, why does he need to possess people? He can do whatever he wants in his own domain. Why mess around up here?”

  “Ms. Drake, you’re confusing Milton’s fiction with demon mythology. Both of which aren’t actually real. You know that, right?”

  “No, I don’t know that. How do you know?”

  An expression of self-satisfied smugness plastered itself on his perfect face.

  “It is known in all intellectual circles. Demons do not actually exist. Angels do not actually exist. This is a tale to discuss on the intellectual plane, not for determining the reality of the devil’s actions.”

  Carol giggled. I wanted to slap the blonde right off her. Wouldn’t take much since she dyed it like once a week.

  “But what if you’re wrong?” I pushed.

  “I’m not, Ms. Drake. Shall we move on? Carol, would you read the next selection?”

  Just like that, dismissed by the all-knowing Professor Bennett. First off, I believed in angels. I knew my mom was among them somewhere up there. And second, I was damn sure demons existed, because I saw one get ripped out of Sandy-hair’s face last night. Even if I was still reeling from the experience, I wasn’t so dumb as to ignore what I saw with my own eyes. Poor Professor Bennett. He really didn’t know what he was talking about, even with all those academic letters behind his name.

  I practically jumped for joy when class ended, shoving my books back into my backpack. Malcolm caught up to me outside.

  “Way to go, Drake. Master of disaster.” He laughed.

  “So glad I could entertain.”

  “Always. Study group tomorrow night, right?”

  “Yep. Meet you at the library as usual, say six o’clock?”

  “Sounds good. See ya then.”

  He loped off in the other direction as I headed for my car. No way could I handle translating Cicero today in Latin class. Too heavy after last night. It was okay. Professor Minga loved me in that class. I was calling my own sick day after the lovely debate on Milton.

  Professor Bennett’s words still milled through my mind as I walked across Loyola’s campus to my car. The weather was changing. I zipped my hoodie and hiked my backpack up higher on my shoulder. Hugging myself as I walked, my mind drifted to my mother. Must be all this talk of Milton. As an artist, my mother admired Gustave Doré, who illustrated scenes from Milton’s sad tales. She painted his drawings with her own impressionistic style. While Doré’s originals were all black and white, my mother’s were smeared with vibrant, wild color. Doré’s artwork evoked a kind of stillness, but not my mother’s. You couldn’t view one of them without feeling something—horror, awe, pity, joy.

  For some reason, her rendition of Doré’s “Numberless Bad Angels” kept popping into my head. My mother’s painting showed a smoky-blue heaven with a twisted line of fiendish-looking angels trailing behind Lucifer, who was depicted as a beautiful, fair-haired angel. All the others flew in a long shadow behind him. I’d always wondered why mother showed the worst of the worst in this way—glowing and glorious. Maybe she was trying to imply that evil hides behind a beautiful face. I don’t know why, but the image never left me.

  I can see her now in the garage studio, standing in front of the canvas in paint-stained jeans. She dipped the brush and stroked in swift, curving motions. Music played in the background. She was partial to Wagner and Bach, but any classical composer could plunge her into another world. The day she created the host of fallen angels, the distinct melancholy tune of Mozart’s “Requiem Mass” lilted through the room. I sat on the stool in the corner, watching for hours. My mother seemed to be guided by the music itself, slowing or speeding up with the tempo. Wispy strands of fair hair hung around her face as she lost herself in a world of blues, pinks and gold, of shadow and light, of dark angels and a darker demon with a beguiling face.

  “Let it go,” I whispered to myself, sighing and walking faster.

  I’d parked illegally on the street, knowing full well I’d probably have a ticket on the windshield when I returned. Campus cops were like sharks in bloody waters, sniffing out offenders with notorious stealth. You never saw them but sure as hell felt bitten when they got you. Dreading to see that I’d been attacked by one of these predators, I rounded the corner, and my heart stopped.

  Propped beautifully against my silver 350ZX was my rescuer, R-and-B from last night. Faded jeans fit snugly on his hips, and a gray T-shirt accentuated a perfect upper body. His black hair fell just right across lovely dark eyes. With casually crossed arms, he watched me approach.

  Heart, please stop pounding that way before he notices.

  This was no accident. He’d found me somehow. Should I be afraid? He didn’t look dangerous. Well, not in a serial-killer sort of way. Hell, he looked good enough to eat. Totally faking bravado, I stopped in front of him with one hand on my waist.

  “Are you stalking me?”

  He didn’t
answer, eyeing me from bottom to top. His gaze paused at my throat, then finally made its way to my eyes. Still mute. I hated awkward silences.

  “Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s not polite to stare?”

  That seemed to jar him a bit. He straightened, his expression grim at best.

  “I apologize. I was—”

  “Checking me out. Yeah, I got that loud and clear.”

  Damn, I was brave. He cleared his throat, hiding a smile now.

  “I was going to say, examining you.” He gestured to my neck.

  “Examining? Why? Are you a doctor?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “What sort of sort?”

  “I have a doctorate.”

  No way. He seemed too young to have a PhD.

  “A doctorate in what?” I asked skeptically.

  “Philosophy.”

  “Your expertise?” I asked, noting the rather sarcastic lilt in my voice. He didn’t bat an eye.

  “My thesis was on how weapons reflect the savagery and sophistication of a culture.”

  That accent again. Definitely European. But what country?

  “Well, a PhD in weaponry may give you some idea how to inflict injuries, but it doesn’t qualify you to examine and diagnose them.”

  “True.”

  Ha! One point for me.

  “So…” I let the word hang. “How could you possibly have a PhD in anything at your age?”

  “I’m older than I appear.”

  A slow, slow devastating smile. A fluttering in my stomach felt like a frantic flock of blind birds. Re-lax, Gen. Thank God he spoke, because for the moment, my lips had completely forgotten how to form words.

  “I simply wanted to determine whether you’d recovered from last night’s attack,” he said, pushing off my car and coming closer.

  Oh no. He was going to touch me. Genevieve Elizabeth Drake, do NOT faint. He reached out and gently folded back my hoodie. He lifted my chin and angled it so that he could see the marks I knew were purpled along the left side. Why was I letting this stranger get so close? Even if he was picture-book gorgeous. I pushed his hand away and stepped around him to my car.